Sam Love

Untitled by Academy Monthly

There was a house on a hill,

Accepting strangers.

Watching them come and go—

Peculiar but no danger.


Stranded yet calm,

A house that could not move

A house that did not move,

With wheels too worn to leave.


Craving and waiting

For something that may never come,

A house with scratch marks in the attic:

For the ideas without recognition 

That feed a superstition

Of a house, omniscient.





And content.